


Hurt

by MadHattersPet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Here there be feels, Hurt, I'm sorry John, Lots of Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:47:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadHattersPet/pseuds/MadHattersPet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life hurts. For John, life hurts a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hurt

Some things hurt. Getting shot in the shoulder, for example, hurts. Watching your sister drink herself into oblivion hurts.  
A few things hurt every day. Stubbing your toe on the stair, your flat mates bony elbow connecting with your ribs ‘accidentally’, but then you remember: you won’t feel that elbow ever again. Because Jim Moriarty forced your flat mate to jump off a building.  
And that thought burns. Jim was wrong, he didn’t burn the heart out of Sherlock, he burnt out John’s instead. All Jim took from Sherlock was the detective’s good name, well and his life but don’t think about that because that thought hurts too much; John took the fire into his own chest and let it eat his heart. Because John would do anything for Sherlock, because John loves Sherlock.

The flat is so, so empty now. Even when Sherlock sulked and didn’t speak for days he filled the flat with his presence. Now it’s just empty. John can’t stand it. He wants to scream, to shatter that emptiness, but he know it won’t help, not really. It’ll just bring in Mrs. Hudson, and John really can’t stand that right now.  
Poor Mrs. Hudson, she’s hurting too, Sherlock and John are the sons she never had with the murdering Mr. Hudson, and now one is in the graveyard and the other—well John’s walking around, and talking, but he’s pretty much in that grave too.  
He dreamt about it the night of the funeral, being curled up in that too long coffin with his friend, gun clutched in his hand—protecting the marvelous Sherlock Holmes even in death. John acknowledges that his therapist would have a field day with that dream and doesn’t tell her. There’s a lot he doesn’t tell her. Somehow it seems too raw to give another human site into him.

John had always been a bit closed off; sure he had lots of mates both in school and in the army, but no one he ever really let inside. And then a barmy man in a trench coat looked at him once and saw everything, looked at him twice and asked him to move in together. Sherlock was the exception to every rule, and this was no different. But John would never willingly share again. Just as he would never see those grey eyes gaze at him, trying to work out another piece.  
Oh God, it hurt. John collapses slowly to his knees in the middle of the living room, inches away from the coffee table that Sherlock abused so often. Every breath pulled at his lungs, unwilling to enter, unwilling to leave and just Christ his heart burned.  
He presses a hand to his chest, as if that will somehow help. But it’s been two years since Sherlock jumped, and John is tired and in pain, and he had the dream again, of curling up with Sherlock in his coffin—the warrior to the detective.  
Back turned to the door, immersed in his own pain, John doesn’t hear the door open, or soft footsteps approach. It’s only when long, lanky, bony arms covered in wool wrap around him and a voice whispers in his ear that he’s aware that he’s not alone. “I’m sorry John. I’m home.”  
John grips the pale, thin hand in his own and chokes out “Welcome home Sherlock.”  
There will be explanations soon. But right now the burning in John’s chest is easing and he can breathe freely again for the first time since he saw his friend on that ledge. Right now life doesn’t hurt as much.


End file.
